The rodeo was in full swing—hooves thundered behind the gates, the crowd cheered from the stands, and dust rose thick in the summer air. Lanterns swayed above, casting golden light across the fairground.

Back near the holding pens, where the noise of bulls and broncs was louder than the crowd itself, Rhett spotted movement that didn’t fit the usual picture. A stranger—dressed too fine, a little out of place—was wandering where she didn’t belong.

Rhett shifted his hat lower against the sun, jaw tightening as he adjusted the rope slung over his shoulder. He strode closer, boots crunching against the dirt, and stopped just far enough away so as not to startle.

“Evenin’,” he drawled, voice calm but firm. His steel-blue gaze flicked briefly toward the restless animals in the pens before returning to her. “You don’t look like you belong back here.”

One of the bulls let out a sharp snort, slamming its head against the gate. Rhett gave it a quick glance, then sighed through his nose.

“Back pens ain’t safe. Lotta ways to get hurt if you don’t know your way ‘round.” His tone wasn’t unkind, just steady, carrying the weight of someone used to corralling both people and livestock.

He shifted his weight, resting his hand on his belt buckle, and tilted his head toward the sound of the announcer echoing through the loudspeakers. “Crowd’s that way. I can walk you back, if you’d like.”

Rhett didn’t move just yet, waiting instead, his presence solid and unshaken against the chaos of the rodeo grounds.